


Growing stronger, warm and wilder

by gloss



Category: Captain America, Marvel 616
Genre: 1970s, Chromatic Character, Community: kink_bingo, Deepthroating, M/M, cap/falc forever, kink bingo, otp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-10
Updated: 2009-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-04 08:08:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's something groovy and good/'Bout whatever we got.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Growing stronger, warm and wilder

**Author's Note:**

> Title &amp; summary from Cass Elliot's "It's Getting Better". Great thanks to [](http://www.insanejournal.com/users/notoriousg/profile)[**notoriousg**](http://www.insanejournal.com/users/notoriousg/) for help and advice. For [](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/profile)[](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/)**kink_bingo**.  
> **setting/spoilers:** Volume 1, c.1970. No spoilers.

The sun was still high and bright when Sam reached the roof. He'd left the office on time for the first time in weeks. Still humming in disbelief, he changed into work clothes before heading up to the birds.

Now, the light slanted acutely across the city, picking out the water-towers' curves and the horizontal moldings crowning each brownstone. If he straightened up, he could have seen downtown, snarls of concrete and glass and the unsettling cavity of Central Park.

That view was too familiar to catch his interest, especially when there was work to be done.

He was just about done slinging the feed into the chutes when the birds started to stir. Heavy footfalls on the steps, then the access door banging open, sent the twitchiest birds jumping and squawking. Their wings beat against the chicken wire. Underfeathers flurried around Sam's legs.

Steve crossed the roof in several quick strides.

"Devil on your tail?" Sam asked as Steve caugh him up and kissed him. Sam gripped Steve's arms and let himself fly for a headrushing few moments.

Steve whimpered in protest when Sam nipped his cheek, then pulled away. "Now, now," Sam chided.

It took him slightly longer to release Steve's hands.

Steve smelled warm, salty and sour with sweat, exactly like he'd been working outside all day. You stay in school, Sam's mother had told him, scrubbing at the sweatstains on his stepfather's shirts with a pumice stone before adding bluing to the cycle. Don't make a wife of yours work like *this*.

Sam had an office job, a title, his name painted on a frosted-glass door. He did his own laundry, always would.

And still he liked, more than anything, to press his face, open-mouthed, into the sweat-sticky curve of Steve's neck and *taste*.

Steve dropped his forehead on Sam's shoulder and they swayed in the warm shadows. The birds settled down in their coops.

There were still the nests to check and the rest of the feed to distribute. When Sam leaned away, Steve clucked and tugged him back.

"Let me finish, man." Sam kept moving away, not looking back.

He knew all too well the crestfallen look that Steve could get. He didn't see it, not when Steve joined him at the feed bag, nor when Steve grabbed the push-broom and set to cleaning up the front row of cages.

When they were done, there was nothing to see but the smear of Steve's face, laughing and bright, as he grabbed Sam by the waist and pulled him in to kiss.

Steve kissed like a teenager, eager, as if he might never get another chance. Thankfully, his skill had far surpassed that of even the most precocious teenager, yet it was still his fervor that impressed Sam the most.

That eagerness extended to everything Steve did and felt. Like he might never get another chance, like he wouldn't be able to survive regret.

No use talking sense to him. He'd just try harder.

Sam worked his hand over Steve's ass, held him close and tasted him from tongue to jaw to hairline. Steve was -- well, he was many things, frequently too many, but right now he was sweaty and panting, hips rolling into Sam's answering rock, and he was Sam's man.

Sam clutched hard at that thought. Steve leaned back a little and looked him over.

"Mmm..." Sam tried to brush off the inquiry in Steve's look. He didn't do pronouncements, certainly didn't declare possessiveness. Never had and, anyway, it would have been impossible with Steve.

Never mind his dick that throbbed against the seam of his jeans. Never mind Steve's lopsided grin as he traced the lump with two fingers.

They bump-shuffled-walked to the door, into the cool shadow, the metal giving Sam the posture he needed.

"Christ," Sam said. "Slow down --"

"Can't." Steve sounded so happy at that, pleased with himself, that Sam couldn't help but smile back, even more widely.

"Well, then --" Sam canted his hips and spread his legs, balanced better to push against Steve's roving hand. His touches were too glancing to do much more than simmer up the frustration. "Why not get down to it?"

"Gladly." Before he folded down to his knees, Steve firmed his hold on Sam's dick and kissed him, mouth open wide enough to yell, teeth scraping and clanging.

Then he was on his knees, beaming upward, and Sam reached for his fly.

He only got so far as the zipper's tongue when Steve knocked his hands away. From this angle, Steve looking up at him, Sam felt -- enormous, expansive. Like the sky, like the flag, drunk in by Steve's wide blue eyes.

That impression -- of lofty, elevated, idealistic things like the Bill of Rights, like Liberty with a capital L -- snapped away when Steve licked his lips.

His smile was wet with drool, the wet of both their tongues, as it curved up. He yanked Sam's trousers down his hips and tugged out Sam's dick.

"Easy, tiger," Sam wanted to say, wanted to joke. Habit kicked in whenever Steve got too serious, too starry-eyed.

But Steve wasn't rhapsodizing right now about the free world or the pursuit of happiness. Just now he was smacking his lips and snuffling Sam's balls, tracing the pubic whorls with the tip of his tongue.

Sam rocked his hips; Steve murmured back happily. Louder, less murmur and more hunger, when Sam pushed his fingers into Steve's fine, silky hair.

Steve blinked, turning his head, testing Sam's hold. Dark lashes blurred his blue eyes.

Sam had Captain Fucking America on his knees, drooling for his cock. Yet the thought didn't do anything for him. Sam tried it again, tried hard, but all he could do was gulp down laughter.

Cap was a good guy, all things considered, but Steve. *Steve*, bareheaded and slickmouthed, that was Sam's man.

Steve's gaze flickered at the sound of Sam's laughter. Sam brushed his knuckles down Steve's cheek, then cupped his jaw. Steve's eyes fluttered closed, his tongue swirling to cup the weight of Sam's balls.

The warmth beat through Sam, pulling his tighter, inclining him toward Steve, into his flushed face, open mouth.

Sometimes the best thing you could do was just open up and let the man do what he loved. Good *Lord*, Steve loved doing this.

Loved Sam, but that wasn't up for discussion.

Steve hummed and licked, stretched to the root to taste everything, then worked the tip of his tongue under the lip of Sam's foreskin. Made him shout at that, smiled in a wet blur, did it again and rocked forward on his knees. His cheeks sucked in, his mouth agape, he followed the rhythm of Sam's thrusts, up and down, back and forth. With one hand braced on the wall, he grasped Sam's ass with the other, kneading, dipping into the crack, the sensation pulling Sam up onto his toes.

He landed back on the flat of his feet and shoved forward. Into Steve, *for* Steve. He gripped Steve's hair with both hands, pulled and held, fucked a little wildly.

Steve gulped and laughed, took some more.

Steve loved it, loved him.

Most of the time Steve's love was far too much for Sam. Usually he had to *remember* to make himself accept it.

Steve gave and gave, kept loving with his full self, and any reasonable man would have learned to take some care. After the first, even the tenth, disappointment, or bruise, or heartbreak, anyone else would grow more cautious.

Steve grew, if anything, more open, more heedless. He'd watched Bucky die. Heartbreak after that was a paper cut.

Anyone else after that was a shade, so far as Sam figured.

Steve would have disagreed, of course. He might even have been right.

He would not be a disappointment. He refused to break Steve's heart. But he couldn't be everything, either. He couldn't be, he wouldn't be.

Steve believed in him.

Steve's belief was a beautiful thing, a golden world, shimmering and distant as Oz.

Sam couldn't ever wholly be the man Steve believed him to be. He could only be himself; he could only do this. Pour himself into Steve, thrust as hard as he can, with all the ragged apology and fucked-up heartfelt affection he couldn't ever say.

Maybe Steve knew that. Maybe that's why he loved this so much. Why he was kneading Sam's ass, pounding at it with his fists, wildly begging to be let in, taking more and more.

His throat flexed around Sam's cock, tightened like a pulse, like a hand, as he swallowed and swallowed again. Soon Sam wasn't pulling out, *couldn't* move, could only nudge a little deeper with each snapping thrust.

He started shooting on a forward jolt and ended up rabbit-humping Steve's face, bent over him, hands splayed down Steve's broad back. He couldn't see, couldn't feel anything but the gripping heat around him. The salt on his face burned, far more than sweat.

Steve's own fly was open, his dick limp and dark as a wattle, sticky when Sam got down and touched it. Steve's lips were swollen when Sam kissed him, took him in hand, wrapped his arm around Steve's shoulders.

Night was coming on, not that the city gave it any respect. Sam licked Steve's mouth open, tasted himself, tasted them both, mingled, and stroked Steve back up.

They rocked together and the shadows gathered thicker around them.


End file.
